


We Are What You Say

by artsyUnderstudy



Series: Paint and Ink [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Artist Castiel, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Homophobia, M/M, Tattoo Artist Dean, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artsyUnderstudy/pseuds/artsyUnderstudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean helps Cas prepare for his upcoming exhibition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are What You Say

_We save our Bibles, we pull our sleeves_  
 _The word is a guard and the guard is a cleave_  
 _We are the right, we are the stay_  
 _The accolade's gone, we are what you say_

-Sufjan Stevens

\--

Dean had to admit, he loved mornings these days.

He stood, completely and enthusiastically naked, in the middle of his kitchen with two cups of coffee in his hands, ceramic hot against his palms and steam curling into the open air.  Dean took a sip from the darker brew, breathing in the thick scent as he walked toward the doorway that led into the living room.  

Padding quietly through the house, down the hall toward his bedroom, Dean glanced at the drawings and watercolors framed on the walls, next to photographs of himself and Sam in the shop, his father as well, shots of some of their best collaborative tattoos.  He smiled fondly at them, a familiar sense of pride and loss that settled heavily on his chest.  

Shouldering his way through the door of his bedroom, the weight lessened, Dean grinning when he saw Cas splayed out on his bed, stomach down, sheets bunched up below the curve of his bare ass.  

Two steaming cups of coffee set down on his nightstand, Dean turned to Cas, watching his shoulders rise in a shallow breath.  He reached out, traced his tattooed wings with the pads of his fingers, feeling along the edges of each feather he’d carefully inked into his skin.  A mess of black line, careful, loose shading.  Dean smiled.  It was a soft expression.  He let his hand trail down over his backside, taking the edge of the sheet between thumb and forefinger and pulling it off of Cas’ legs.

Cas shivered a little at the open air, still resolutely asleep, arms curled up under his head and hair a mess.  Dean could see his right hand peeking out beneath his cheek, blue and orange paint dried beneath his short nails.

Without a word, Dean knelt onto the mattress and moved to straddle Cas’ thighs, his hands braced at the base of his spine.  Thumbs pressed into the soft, tanned skin.  His own skin was paler by comparison.  There was a streak of greenish pigment across Cas’ side.

“How the hell did you get paint there?” Dean murmured, massaging the muscles of Cas’ lower back, fingers pressed to either side, working their way down to the twin dimples that rested just above his ass.  

Cas groaned a little at the press of Dean’s fingers, trying in vain to move into the touch, but Dean had him pinned to the mattress.  He squirmed weakly.  Dean laughed and moved his hands further down to grab his ass, spreading it slowly apart and kneading the cheeks beneath his thick, rough fingers.

“Dean,” Cas said, in that low, gravely, sleep drunk voice.  “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” Dean smiled, his thumb dipping down between Cas’ spread cheeks, circling his hole very lightly, puffy and pink and shining with lubricant from the night before.  Cas whimpered and wiggled under him again, and Dean laughed, pulling back.

“That is far too early,” Cas groaned, Dean leaning forward to press himself flush to Cas’ back, arms boxing him in against the mattress as he straightened out his legs.  “I need another hour.”

Dean hummed.  His toes rubbed at the inside of Cas’ shins, prodding at his skinny ankles and overlapping his feet.  Cas’ toes curled, short nails pressed against his skin.

“I made coffee,” Dean said against the back of his neck, kissing him as he ran his hands down Cas’ sides.  Cas shivered under his attention.  “And you gotta get to the studio.”

“Not until ten,” Cas groused, voice strained from the weight of Dean across his back.  He clumsily extricated one arm from beneath him, reaching back to run his fingers through Dean’s hair.  Dean smiled and kissed him again, feeling goosebumps blooming down his neck and across his shoulders.  Cas sighed, yawning and shifting a little.  

“We’ll be… mmph…”  Cas licked his lips, pushing up against Dean.  Dean stayed put, grinning.  “We’re gunna be preparing the exhibition for the, uh… the next week or so."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, nudging him. Maybe he'd stay awake if he kept him talking.

"Yes...  I got the space I wanted, did I tell you?  In the center.  White dividers on either side.   I have to attach many of my pieces to the walls.”  Cas took a breath, sniffing as Dean began to nose at the short hair that curled up under his ears.  “That should be… interesting.”

“Hmm,” Dean smiled.  “I still stand by my original idea.  Painted plaster cocks as far as the eye can see.  Woulda been a hit.”

Cas smacked him playfully on the side of the head with the hand that had been carding through his hair. Dean laughed and tickled the arches of Cas’ feet with his toes.

“Your obsession with wanting your member on display is a little disconcerting,” Cas said, sighing when Dean kissed his neck again, lingering there.  “And painted how?”

“I dunno, man, you’re the artist not me.”

“You’re an artist,” Cas chided, “How about replicas of master works, or food?  A porkchop painted right over your left testicle.”

Dean shook the bed with laughter, Cas grunting under his weight and pulling on his hair.  Dean rolled off him, wrapping an arm around his waist as Cas curled in against his side.  Dean threaded his fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead.

“Can’t wait to see it,” Dean said softly, straining his neck to catch Cas’ mouth, the other man’s hand closed over his heart.  He covered it with his own.  They kissed lazily, small touches of lips, pulling back to feel each other’s breath against their skin.  His heart fluttered, that happy, anxious excitement that still hadn’t worn off since the first time Cas had touched him months ago, prepping him for the art they would make together.  

Cas hummed as he pulled away, pressing his cheek against Dean’s chest, his eyes closed.

“Fifteen more minutes,” Cas mumbled, smiling as Dean continued to run his fingers through his mess of dark hair.

“Coffee’s getting cold,” Dean nagged, twisting one lock of hair around his finger, pulling at it gently.  Cas frowned, sighing against him, one leg overlapping and tangled with his own.  Dean rolled his eyes.  “Fine.  I’ll make more.”

Cas sighed contentedly, already half asleep.  Dean pressed another small kiss to the top of his head, smoothing down his hair, ghosting his fingers across his stubbled jaw.

“Love you, Cas.”

\--

Dean had already accumulated twelve hours in the shop that day, Charlie pulling faces at him over the barriers between workstations while he struggled to deal with finances, something he was doing more and more frequently.  Much to his dismay.  Sam had been way better at this than Dean.  Dean just wanted a tattoo gun in his hand, classic rock blaring in his ears, making small talk with customers as he worked.  He’d always been the face with Sam behind the scenes.

Whatever.  It was important, so he muscled through.  Felt kinda wrong to leave it in anyone’s hands except his or Sam’s.  Plus he felt bad for pushing it off on Kevin the first few months after Sam left.

“What’s got you distracted?” Charlie asked him, disappearing behind the wall only to reappear a second later, twirling into the center of the room on a black wheeled chair.  Dean looked up at her, rolling his eyes and tapping his pen against the page.

“Dude, I’ve been here since nine this morning.  I’m _tired_.”

“No, I know your tired face.  That is _so_ not your tired face.  That’s your distracted face.  Or your Cas face.  Are you distracted by Cas?” Charlie grinned and tapped the side of her nose with her finger.  “Where’s he been the past week?  Feel like he was here every day for a while and now squat.  Oh God, you didn’t fuck it up did you?”

“No, I didn’t ‘fuck it up’,” Dean said with another pointed eyeroll.  “Are you bored?  Because you could be cleaning.  We’re probably not getting anyone else in tonight.”

“Don’t go all bossy on me now, captain.  What’s up?”

“He’s just busy getting ready for his big exhibition,” Dean said, staring back down at the page.   The numbers were starting to blur together.  “He gets wrapped up in his own shit sometimes.  I just miss him.  You happy now?”

“Wait, wait, wait.  When’s this exhibition and why the hell wasn’t I invited?”

“You can be invited,” Dean grinned, dropping his pen to the desk and shoving the books and papers away.  He was beyond done for the night.

“You should call Sam,” Charlie said seriously, pushing her way toward him on the chair.  Like an overgrown five year old propelling herself with feet on the tiled floor.  “You know, meet the boyfriend and all.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but his cell started buzzing and she just cocked an eyebrow at him, watching as he fumbled for it, flipping it open and setting it against his ear.

“Rescue me,” Dean said unprompted into the receiver.

“ _I was calling to ask you the same thing_ ,” Cas replied, his voice pinched.  Dean frowned and watched Charlie mirror his expression.

“Are you okay?  Did you get hurt again?” Dean asked, tapping his fingers against the desk, trying to stay calm.

“ _No, I’m not hurt.  Just… frustrated.  Can you meet me at the studio?_ ”

“Uh…”

“ _It’s okay if you can’t._ ”

“No, I can.  Be there in fifteen minutes tops,” Dean said, closing his phone and turning to Charlie.  “Hey Chekov, you clean, you lock up.  Don’t get too drunk pickin’ up chicks tonight because you’re in early tomorrow.”

“Whatever, captain.  I am way more of a Scotty,” she replied without further comment, flashing him a Vulcan salute and shoving her way back toward her workstation, wheels rattling against the floor.

\--

Dean tapped on the glass.  It was a floor to ceiling window that looked into a large gallery.  Dean stared at the high ceiling and white walls beyond, ladders and workstations scattered around the space, paintings and photographs propped or hung up in equal increments.  There were a series of tall, white dividers separating each individual artist’s section, some that looked complete and others that looked in disarray.  

Cas stood in the middle of the room, dirty, white splattered jeans and a similarly dirty gray tee.  Dean could see his tattooed wings peeking out beneath the sleeves.  It made something in him go very warm.

Dean watched as Cas brought his hand up to his face, his beautiful, long fingers rubbing at his eyes.  His brows were furrowed, he looked tired and stressed, staring down at a neat pile of painted plaster body parts on the floor in front of him.  

Apparently he hadn’t heard Dean.  Which was fine.  Dean liked to look at him, something he realized he’d been doing for a good few minutes.  Taking a breath, he raised his hand to the glass and smacked it open-palm three times, hearing it echo through the hall.  

Cas looked up at him, then, his eyebrows raised.  Dean grinned and pointed toward the door, mouthing the words “It’s locked.”  He blinked at Dean a few times before he moved.

When Dean finally stood face to face with Cas, he could see the circles under his eyes.

“What’s up, man?  You look beat,” Dean said, reaching out to run his fingers through Cas’ hair, his expression pinched.

“I am… I’m freaking out,” Cas said, stilted like he wasn’t sure it was the correct phrase.

“You’re stressed,” Dean said.

“Obviously.”

“What do you need from me?” Dean asked, running the pads of his fingers down the line of Cas’ jaw, angling his face to look at him.  “Why’d you call?”

“I can’t get the pieces to stay on the wall without it looking awful.  One of my professors suggested hooks but I want them to come out of the wall, not just hang them up like a prized hunting rifle collection.” Cas sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Dean’s shoulder.  “I just wanted to see you.  I feel like no matter how much I plan there are still things that I don’t anticipate and it’s frustrating.”

Dean laughed and pulled Cas into a hug, feeling Cas’ fingers wind into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Dean said into his hair, feeling his breath on his neck.  “You clean up and come home with me.  I’ll make us spaghetti and garlic bread, we’ll have a couple beers and then I’ll give you the most amazing blowjob of your goddamn life.  Then, in the morning, we’ll run out to the hardware store for supplies.  It’ll probably be cheap as hell, but I can jerry rig those suckers to the wall.”

Cas relaxed against him, nodding, and Dean kissed him once on the top of the head before they headed back into the gallery to clean up.

\--

The process cost them both some skin, but Dean was happy for the sacrifice.

They wrapped the slightly bleeding pads of their fingers in cheap bandages, sweat and dried specks of plaster sticking to their skin.  Along with the physical toll, it took one roll of wire mesh sheets, a few bent metal rods, more than a handful of screws, and a heavy duty power screwdriver to get the damn sculptures on the wall.

The look on Cas’ face was so, so worth it.

Dean walked up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist and settled his chin in the crook of his neck.  Cas tipped his head to the side until they touched, steadying one another.  There were other people puttering around in the gallery as well, but they didn’t pay them any mind.  The nice thing about living in a college town was that no one really blinked twice at two dudes sharing body heat.  Other towns he’d been in hadn’t always been so kind.

“Still nervous?” Dean asked, closing his eyes and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  Back and forth.

“Yes,” Cas said, taking a deep breath.  “But... less so.  My professors have responded well to the project so far.  A few of my classmates don’t really get it.”

“They probably aren’t paying attention,” Dean mumbled, taking a deep breath and drifting a little.  He was tired.  

“What if people don’t like it?” Cas asked, and Dean could feel him physically tense up.

“They will," Dean responded, holding him tighter.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve got excellent taste, and I like it.”

“It’s basically a shrine to your body, grotesque as it is.” Dean sniffed accusingly, and Cas knocked their heads together.  “Not you, the art.”

“The art is awesome, Cas, stop worrying,” Dean mumbled, his voice a little too terse.  He felt Cas’ shoulders slump.  “Anyone says otherwise and you’ll never see em’ again, swear to God.”  Cas just leaned into him more, silent.  Dean turned his head and kissed his cheek.  “Still gotta swing by the shop today.  Shouldn’t go a whole day without at least making sure everything’s in working order.  Kevin’s good, but he ain’t me.”

“We can nap at my dorm first.  Then, we can go together,” Cas said, in a tone that meant it wasn’t up for discussion.

“Yeah fine,” Dean sighed, too tired to fight it.

\--

It took a bit of working himself up, but Dean finally called Sam.  He hadn’t exactly told his brother about Cas.  At first it was because he was afraid it wasn’t going to last, and then because he was afraid it was.  

“ _I am so pissed at you_ ,” Sam grumbled over the line, tapping away at his keyboard.  Dean rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the noise.

“What, you gunna call me every time you get laid?” Dean grumbled, pacing a circle around his living room.

“ _So he’s just a lay?_ ”

“No,” Dean admitted.  “No he’s uh… no.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sam said slowly.  “ _Oh shit._ ”

“Don’t.”

“ _Dean.  Seriously.  This is important isn’t it?_ ” Sam had this earnest sort of trepidation in his tone that made Dean want to throttle him.

“Shut it, Sammy,” Dean warned, and he thought he could hear his brother flinching in annoyance at the endearment.  He’d get over it.  “Look, the opening for his exhibition is on the twenty fifth.  Can you make it or not?  It means a lot to him.”

“ _Yes, I will come to your boyfriend’s exhibition, Dean_ ,” Sam sighed.  “ _And I’ll wait until after to punch you out for waiting so long to tell me._ ”

“Like you could land a punch,” Dean scoffed, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge.  He stared at the contents blankly for a moment.  He liked to cook when Cas was there, but today he was feeling lazy.  Maybe he’d make himself a big fat sandwich and watch ‘Dr. Sexy’ for a couple hours before he had to go into work.

“ _In all seriousness, I’m proud of you, dude._ ”  Dean felt a tightness in his chest at the words, mindlessly reaching down for a beer on the bottom shelf.  He shouldered the fridge door closed.

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice grave.  “I’m a fucking inspiration.”

“ _Shut up.  I mean it._ ”

Dean pressed the phone between his shoulder and ear and popped the cap off his drink.  He took a sip, padding back into the living room.  He wasn’t feeling very hungry anymore.

“ _A lot of people have gay panics, Dean.  It was ten years ago, you were a kid._ ”

“Friggin’ great, thought I was just some douchebag anomaly.  Glad to know there are more of me out there.”  Dean sighed and ran his hand through his hair, falling back on the couch and taking another swig of beer.  “Okay, well, this conversation is over.  I’ll see you at the exhibition, right?”

“ _Yeah whatever, jerk_ ,” Sam teased.

“Later, bitch,” Dean shot back, flipping his phone closed.

\--

The art looked different under direct light, the floor cleared off and the walls a perfect, pristine white.  

There was something enticing about the shadows that were cast beneath the plaster sculptures that Cas had painted, in pale peach and warm blues and saturated red.  Dean knew they were supposed to be discomforting, what with their sculpted imperfections and unnatural colors, the way they dripped and bled together, but all he could see was the love and patience Cas put into them, and they all just looked kind of beautiful.

He felt a hand press against the curve of his spine, a forehead come to rest against his temple.  

“You can do this,” Dean said, feeling the warmth of Cas’ breath flirt across his cheek.  Dean turned to look him in the face, and Cas was frowning, his lips in a tight line.  “Dude, it looks… it’s amazing, alright?”

“Okay,” Cas said simply, turning at the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor.

His peers hovered around their respective corners of the exhibition, the same way Cas stayed close to his own work.  It was still early, people still trickling slowly into the building and making small talk at the entrance before heading into the gallery.  They made rounds at first, staring at each piece in turn.  It wasn’t until a few minutes in that people started to engage with Cas about the art, and Dean backed off.  Let him be him for a while.

Soon Cas was talking intensely about his work to an older couple, seeming to relax, looking proud of himself, even.  Dean took the opportunity to go back out into the hall to the admittedly enticing spread of food they had laid out.  His mouth watered a little, he wasn’t ashamed of that.  The meatballs looked fucking sinful.

Dean forced himself away from the spread and grabbed his cell phone, staring down the hall to the main entrance. He watched a tetchy woman in a pantsuit walk in, arms crossed in front of her chest.  Someone didn’t want to be there, that’s for damn sure.  

The phone rang twice before Sam picked up.

“Dude, where are you?” Dean asked, waving at a couple of students he recognized, one short brunette blushing when he smiled at her.

“ _I had to swing by to get Charlie.  We’ll be there in like… a minute._ ”

“Alright, well, if you don’t hurry up I’ll start messing up the place.  You know how I get.”

“ _Good lord, we’re parking now.  Hold onto your panties._ ”

“How did you know about my panties?” Dean asked seriously.  Sam choked out a painful sound, clearing his throat and laughing.

“ _We’re walking in now_ ,” he said, hanging up before Dean could embarrass him more.

\--

Dean met Sam at the entrance, pulling him into a hug before leading both him and Charlie down toward the gallery.  

“Dude I haven’t seen you dressed up so nice since senior prom,” Sam joked, nudging him with his elbow.  

“Yeah, well, I’m definitely lovin’ the hair.  Very blue collar of you,” Dean smiled, waggling his eyebrows at him and reaching out to ruffle his hair, slicked and parted down the middle.  Sam made a distressed noise and batted at his hand, his sleeve falling down to reveal the edge of a tattoo along his arm.  Dean warmed at the sight of it.

“You both look very pretty,” Charlie grinned, nudging between them and wrapping her arms around both of their waists.  “Behave, we’re around civilized people.  Artists!”

“I saw a guy dressed in only America Flag themed swim trunks, Charlie.  These are our people,” Sam smiled.

“Dude, where?” Dean asked.

“Four o’clock,” Sam replied with a conspiratorial smirk.  Dean whipped his head around until he spotted him, coming in through the side entrance with a small group of other students, some he recognized.  Dude was topless, shoeless, and apparently shameless.

“Damn it, and I’m in this fucking monkey suit,” Dean groused.

“Sure your boyfriend appreciates it,” Charlie teased.  Sam chuckled and Dean felt his ears go warm.

When they reached the food table Charlie pulled away and headed straight for the tray of tiny hamburgers, Sam groaning and rolling his eyes.  Dean just grinned at her, about to say something about waiting until after they made the rounds to eat, but then he spotted Cas through the window. 

 His shoulders were drawn back and his fists clenched, engaged with the woman in the pantsuit he’d seen pass by earlier.

Dean didn’t even say anything to Sam, just made his way back into the gallery, accidentally bumping shoulders with other guests as he went.  It was all a mess of color and noise, Cas in the center.

“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” he muttered, making a b-line toward him.  The woman was bearing down on Cas now, and Dean had never seen him so angry, eyes bright and muscles taut.  He also looked taken aback, not poised to fight back.   Dean could already hear her voice, a low and biting tone.

“I gave you your space.  You’ve had four years to get this out of your system.  I’ve spoken to your father.  If you just come home we can… get you some help.”

Dean felt his stomach twist up, holding back.  Cas didn’t look up at him, didn’t even realize he was there.  He just stared at the woman, fear burning behind his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Cas asked her quietly.

“We miss you, Castiel.  We’re worried about you.  This is… such a waste.”

“It’s not a waste to me,” Cas replied, voice low and dangerous.

Dean shook himself out and moved quickly to Cas’ side.  Cas bristled when Dean set his palm against his back, but he didn’t move away.  The woman stared at him with realization, with disgust, and something baser, something more like fear.

“Dean…” Cas said quietly.  Dean looked over at him, and Cas’ face was drawn, building up walls Dean didn’t know could exist.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Dean asked, trying to keep his tone light even as his hand trembled against Cas’ back.

“You…” she gaped, her face going white.  Cas couldn’t even meet her eyes.  “Is this who you’ve ruined yourself for?”

“We have a very different definition of ruined,” Dean said, as calmly as he could manage.  His fingers pressed harder to Cas’ back, steadying himself more than the man at his side.

“Dean,” Cas said, with a little more heat.

“I love your son,” Dean continued, with more bite in his tone than he’d intended.  He just meant it.  From the core of him, he meant it.  She stared at him like that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

“You don’t know what love is,” she said angrily.  “You’re confusing your depraved, unnatural lust for _love_.”

“That’s bull-“

“Dean!” Cas snapped, and Dean jerked around to look at him.  His blue eyes were wide and angry, and Dean felt like he’d been hit.  “Stop it.”

“Cas?” Dean breathed, like the air was gone from his lungs.  He struggled with himself for a moment, his hand slipping from Cas’ back.

“Mother, you need to leave.  Now,” Cas said, his voice shaking, but hard.

“Do you know what it took to convince your father to let me come?” she asked, taking a step toward Cas and away from Dean.  “He never wanted to see you again.  Here I find you…” Her eyes darted to Dean, and he tried to stand firm under her gaze.  Then, slowly, she looked toward Cas’ art, the culmination of months of hard work, literal blood and sweat.  “I find you making these,” she said quietly.  “What even is this, Castiel?”  

Cas didn’t say a word.  Dean stared at her, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it.  The woman was angry now, her neck red and eyes wide.  Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.  Her eyes were the same blue as Cas’ eyes.  Dean couldn’t help but think she didn’t deserve that.  

“Art is supposed to be beautiful,” she said, lips tight around the words.  “This is… this is a perversion.  Of art and of your faith.  Why can’t you see that?”

Dean felt himself go cold.  He saw Cas pull back, out of the corner of his eye, before Dean turned to him completely.  Cas’ eyes were red-rimmed and soft, even as his expression stayed hard and unforgiving.  Something was crumbling.

“If you won’t leave, I will,” Cas said, with finality.  He didn’t give her time to respond, didn’t even look at Dean as he turned to walk out of the room.  Dean only barely registered Charlie and Sam as Cas passed them by.  He wondered when they’d followed him in.  How much they’d seen.  

Dean couldn’t make his legs move to chase him.  He turned to stare down at the woman, Cas’ mother, and he’d never hated someone so much in his entire life.

“You don’t deserve him,” Dean said, his voice a low growl.

She stared at him with venom, with unfiltered disgust, pulling her shoulders back so she stood at her full height.  Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy, the rest of her expression cold and measured.   "I am his mother," she spat, no give in her tone.  None of the pleading she'd had with Cas.  "You are... wrong, you're _nothing_."  

Dean just turned away from her, finally finding his feet and walking toward the exit.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Charlie asked, grabbing his sleeve and halting his trek forward.  Dean felt tears burning behind his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if it was from anger or that helpless, sinking feeling, but he knew where he was going.  “What happened?”

“There’s something real fucked up about the world we live in,” Dean spat, reaching up and rubbing at his eyes.  “Where parents, fuck… anybody…” He took a deep breath, and he could feel their gaze on him.  “I have to go find him.”

“Okay, Dean,” he heard his brother say in that careful, calm tone he got when he fucking knew Dean was a second away from losing it.  Dean just nodded and brushed past them, heading out the door.

\--

Dean found Cas in the parking lot.  There was a plume of smoke billowing from his parted lips, a cigarette between his fingers.  Dean approached him cautiously, Cas flinching when he got close.  Still, he didn’t pull away from Dean’s hand, threading through his hair and resting against the back of his head.

He smelled like tobacco, and Dean’s favorite cologne, and clean sweat, and everything good in the world.  Everything that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, his voice wrecked and quiet, bringing the cigarette back up to his mouth.  Before he could take a drag, Dean placed two fingers under his chin, and he stopped, filter pressed against his lip.  Dean took the nearly smoked down cigarette between two fingers.  Cas let him have it.  Without a word he dropped it onto the pavement, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot.

“Love the sex voice, but lung cancer’s a bitch,” Dean joked, without a lot of push.  It felt very thin.

Cas stared up at him, his jaw clenched, eyes unfocused.  Dean moved to cup his face in his hands, pulling him forward to press a kiss to his temple.  Cas exhaled at the touch, a short, uncomfortable sound.  Dean let his lips linger there for a moment before he felt arms around his waist.  Pulling him close.  Dean’s arms closed tight over his shoulders, one hand running through his hair.  He felt Cas give himself over to it, his weight pressed against Dean’s chest.

“Take me home,” Cas said quietly.

“Fuck her.  Don’t let her ruin this for you,” Dean said, holding him tighter.  “You worked so hard to get here.  You deserve to be in there.”

“Dean, please,” Cas said intensely. “I _can’t_.”  A breeze blew past them, warm but insistent.  Cas’ placed a small, weak kiss to his neck.

“Okay,” Dean breathed.  “Okay.”

After a few more moments spent trying to convince himself to let go of Cas, he led them both to the Impala.  Once there, he sent Sam a text to apologize.  Sam sent him one back telling him not to be stupid, and that he hoped Cas would be okay.   _Yeah_ , Dean replied.   _Me too._  Dean closed his phone, backing out of the space and heading to his apartment.  

He didn’t give much thought to the fact that Cas said had just said ‘home’, and Dean had naturally just assumed his own.  Cas didn’t fight it.

\--

Dean watched from his doorway as Cas made his way slowly toward the bed, his head bowed and eyes half closed.  

His fingers moved over the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing each of them.  Cas stopped at the foot of the mattress, back to Dean, letting the shirt fall off his shoulders, pooling to the carpet in a heap.  He had on a sleeveless, form-fitting undershirt, the tattooed wings winding their way down leanly muscled arms.  Dean gravitated toward him.

Dean gently turned Cas to face him. Hands on his shoulders, thumbs pressed into the warm skin and pliant muscle, Dean pressed his forehead to Cas’.  Listened to him breathe.  Then he felt warm, strong but delicate hands cupping his jaw, pulling him forward into a kiss.  It was slow and measured, no heat or push or excitement.  Dean just tightened the fingers around Cas’ biceps, nipped at his lower lip and kissed it in turn, trying to get him to relax, open himself up to it.

Dean let his fingers draw across the length of Cas’ arms, finding their way to the hands on either side of his jaw.  He cupped his own, larger and rougher, hands over Cas’, ran his thumbs across his thick knuckles.  Cas stopped kissing him for a moment, just pressing their faces together and borrowing his air, and Dean let him have it.

Before he knew what was happening, Cas was pushing him away, fingers dragged across the rough layer of stubble on his jaw.  Dean let his arms fall to his sides, watching as Cas reached back to grab the collar of his shirt, pulling it up over his head.  Dean held his breath as Cas made short work of his pants and briefs, the heat of arousal stirring in Dean’s stomach as Cas sat back on the mattress, his thighs parted.

Dean’s eyes raked over his body, the slight bruising on his knees from labor on the exhibition, the paint perpetually stuck under his nails, the minor cuts on his hands from dealing with the dangerous, jagged edges of mesh wire they’d used to put his work on the walls.  The healing bruises on his collarbone from the last time they’d made love.

He swallowed the stone in his throat, dropping his jacket to the floor, unbuttoning his own shirt, removing his pants and boxers until he stood bare in front of Cas.

Dean could feel himself getting hard just from looking at him, but when he looked down between Cas’ legs he realized that he was the only one.  He took a deep breath and lowered himself to his knees at the edge of the mattress, moving forward until he was close enough to touch him.  His hands wrapped around the outside of Cas’ thighs, a soft but insistent push as he closed them.  Cas looked up at him with a question.

“Not doing this if you’re not into it,” Dean said, watching those blue eyes narrow at him, his head cocked to the side.  It was all very much a warped mirror of his normal expressions.  Too thin, too tired.

“I am,” he said, and even his voice sounded tired.  Dean just frowned at him for a moment, leaning forward and kissing him, his hand winding into Cas’ hair.  “I am,” he repeated against his mouth.

Dean moved to his side, pulling Cas against his chest, both laid back on the pillows.  He ran his fingers over the lines of the tattoo on Cas' stomach, the muscles contracting at the touch, his breath a little shallow.  If they were going to do this, it wasn’t going to be with Dean pushing his way into Cas, just something to fill a void, just because he felt like he was supposed to.  That wasn’t what he wanted this to be.  Ever.

If that was selfishness, he would be selfish.

When Dean reached down to palm Cas; he was still soft.  Not a twinge of arousal.

“It’s okay to be pissed,” Dean said, setting his forehead against Cas’ cheek, taking his soft cock in his hand and stroking it carefully, rolling it around in his palm.  Slowly he moved lower, cupping his balls, running a thumb down the center.  

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cas growled, his legs parting a little, reflexively, giving Dean better access.

“I know,” Dean said simply.  “Just sayin’ it’s okay.  I am.”  Cas inhaled sharply, Dean massaging him, working his way back up.  Cas was beginning to stiffen and pulse under his attention.  It still wasn’t enough.  “I am.  I’m angry.  Fuckin’ pissed.”  Cas groaned when Dean wrapped his hand around him again, giving him a generous stroke, base to tip.  He was half hard now, and Dean could feel him trembling against his chest.

“What’s the point?” Cas said, voice pinched.  Then he gasped, Dean trailing his thumb over his cockhead, a small bead of precome at the tip.  Dean spread it over the swelling skin, soothing him under his palm.  “Dean…” he breathed, leaning in and pressing his lips to his pulse.  It was reverent the way Cas said his name, the way it always was.  Like faith and wonder on his breath.

Dean worked him until he was panting, his eyes open and staring into his, still so tired and worn and sad.  All Dean wanted was to take some of that weight off him, wanted to see him smile.  Wanted him to know how important he was.

How Cas was his faith, too.

Letting him go, Dean reached toward to bedside table for the lube.  He slicked up his fingers wordlessly, watching the rise and fall of Cas’ chest, the black ink feathers that framed it.  Cas opened his legs again, propped his feet against the mattress, but Dean just shook his head, leaning down to kiss him as he reached between his own legs.

“Not tonight,” he said quietly, pushing into himself.

\--

Dean probably could have worked himself open longer, but he didn’t mind the burn.  

Cas lay on his back, staring up at him with his soft, thick lips parted around a quiet moan as Dean lowered himself onto his cock, leaning in to press a kiss to his shoulder, dragging his teeth along the edge of the tattoo.  Cas threaded his fingers into his hair, holding him close, his heart pounding.  

It took a moment to adjust, but then he started to move, a slow up and down roll of his hips as Cas shook beneath him, wordless and nearly soundless.  Dean pulled back to give himself more leverage, planting his hands on Cas’ hips, pushing himself up on his knees and down again.  Watching Cas’ eyes dilate, feeling his hands close almost painfully hard over his thighs, it made him feel whole in a way he’d never felt with anyone else.  

"Fuck," Dean gasped, feeling Cas swell inside him, a pulse that mirrored his own.  He could feel everything.

Cas’ eyes were still so tired, lidded.  His expression hardly changed as Dean rode him, fucking down harder, moving in a way that should make him gasp, should make him let go and fall into it the way he always did when they were together.  Intimately connected, skin stuck with sweat and pressed into the soft, pliant mattress.  

Dean slowed himself, his chest heaving, cock hanging wet and heavy and untouched between his legs.  It rested against Cas’ stomach when he lowered himself down, Cas fully sheathed and pulsing again inside him.  Dean took a breath and reached out to run his fingers through Cas’ hair, Cas reaching up to wrap his own fingers around his wrist.  Then, he pressed a kiss to the heel of Dean’s palm, closing his eyes.

"We can stop," Dean told him, nearly breathless and slightly trembling.  "We don't have to do this."  A frown creased in Cas' brow, and he shook his head, rolling his hips a little.  Dean gasped at the sensation, dragging his fingers over the stubble on Cas' jaw.

Dean stared at him, steeled himself for a moment, watched Cas’ features pinch and relax in turn.  Then, making a decision, he pulled back, readjusting to plant his feet on the bed, feeling it give way beneath him.  

He fucked down on Cas _hard_ , arching his back and bracing himself on Cas’ thighs, fingers pressed into the tensed muscle.

“ _Ah_ \- fuck,” he growled, pushing himself up and fucking down again, burying Cas inside him as far as he could go.  He ground down on him for a moment, clenching his muscles, and he felt hands close over his knees, the pressure of nails against his skin.  He felt flushed, heated, beading with sweat.

“Fuck.  Yeah.   _Harder._  Fuck me harder,” Dean groaned, fucking down on him again, head back and neck bared and cock slapping against Cas’ stomach.  Putting on a fucking show, legs parted, cheeks hot.  “So.  Fuck, so good. Ah – _damn it_ – so hot,” Dean gasped, his legs shaking as he pushed himself up again, feeling Cas’ cockhead catch on that tight, heated ring of muscle.  “So good.  So fucking good for me.”

“Dean,” Cas breathed, and Dean let out a loud, heavy groan, his chest shaking, hips rolling slowly, teasing.  Cas’ nails were biting painfully into his skin, his hands shaking. 

"You want it?" Dean grinned, clenching around him, lowering just a fraction.  “You wanna.  Wanna fuck me, ah - fucking leave me raw?” He pulled up again, almost off of Cas completely before he felt Cas grab his hips, lift himself up.  He fucked up into him, filling that empty space.

“Yeah!  Harder, shit, _harder_ Cas,” Dean said, his voice low and demanding.  “Need you, need you.  Yeah!  You're a fucking _stallion_ Cas, I wanna ride you all night, fuck, _fuck_ -”  Dean almost laughed at himself but then Cas rolled his hips once more, a breath of hesitation before that awful wall Cas had up finally broke the hell down.  “Fuck yes.  Fuck –“  Cas fucked him without restraint, hips snapping and grinding and Dean met him at every thrust, thighs burning perfectly, groaning his pleasure, letting him know how good he was, how perfect and hot and fuck.   _Fuck_.

“Yeah.  _Yeah._   Fucking _give_ it to me.  Feels so fucking good,” Dean growled, letting go of Cas’ thighs and leaning down to brace himself against the mattress.  Cas stared up at him, his eyes wide, something feral flaring behind them.  "C'mon.  That all you got?  Make me scream."

Dean kissed him, hard, less a meeting a lips and more an attack.  They were forcing one another to give everything they had.  A ferocious, angry, heated push.

Cas bit his lower lip, and Dean gasped, Cas giving him a hard thrust before reaching out, latching an arm under one of Dean’s legs, the other arm around his back.  He flipped him with a near violent strength, Dean gasping in surprise.  Suddenly, Cas was on top of him, lining back up and fucking into him with as much force as he could manage, his breath hitching as he snapped his hips forward, chests pressed together, sweat sticking between their skin.

“You’re ridiculous,” Cas panted, breathing out something that sounded like a strained laugh, “Fuck you, ah - fuck you for doing that.”  He drove into him harder, teeth against his cheek, pressing his forehead to Dean’s temple, breathing, gasping in the smell of sweat and sex.  “Fuck you for making it impossible for me.”

“Cas,” Dean breathed, holding onto him, nails pressed in against his back.

“I didn’t want to feel it,” Cas said, his movements erratic, unrestrained, his chest shaking and arms so tight around him that he couldn’t feel anything else.  “You make me feel so much.”  Dean didn’t say anything, soothing the scratches on Cas’ back under his hands before moving to thread into his hair, the softest touch in the midst of this brutal, hot, mess.  Dean was being ravaged into the fucking mattress.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Cas said angrily,  jerking his hips forward so hard Dean let out a real groan, half a sob, pressing his lips to Cas’ neck.

“No,” Dean gasped. “No, you’re perfect.”

“I love you,” Cas said, his voice less angry and more broken, a few more thrusts before he stopped breathing, his whole body tensing.  

Dean clenched around him, and Cas let out a quiet whimper, limbs shaking, hips knocking forward clumsily before Dean felt warmth fill him up, Cas’ spend dripping out between his legs.  Cas let out a shaking breath against him, Dean rolling his hips up to prolong his pleasure, making sure Cas felt every second of it.

Moments passed, and Cas finally went limp against Dean, breathing hard, face buried in the crook of his neck.  He pressed soft kisses against Dean's shoulder.

“You okay?” Dean asked, still running his fingers through Cas’ hair.  He was still hard, his head still foggy, but he felt sated.   He could take care of it later if he needed to.  This wasn’t for him, anyway.  

Cas nodded in response as Dean pressed a kiss into his sweat soaked hair.  Then he pulled back, just a bit, so he could look Cas in the eyes.  His expression was softer now, still tired but less pained.  He gave him a small, but genuine, smile and Dean couldn’t help but beam back at him.  

Of all the things he loved about Cas, that crooked little smile, just for him, was the best out of all of it.

\--

Dean woke up slowly, feeling something ghosting across his face, the cleft of his chin, the swell of his cheekbone, the edges of his eyes.  

He hummed quietly, reaching out to catch the movement against his fingertips, finding a hand, a wrist.  He wrapped his fist around it.  He pulled it toward his mouth.  He pressed a kiss to one knuckle, fingers still mapping out the planes of his face, his jaw, his neck.

He opened his eyes to find another pair staring back at him, a deep blue, measured and calm.  Cas watched him expectantly, and Dean smiled, pulling his hand more firmly to his face, letting Cas cup his jaw, wind around the back of his neck.  Then he moved forward, pressing himself in against his chest, ear to pulse.  Molding the shapes of their bodies together.

Wrapping his arms around Cas’ waist, tracing his tattoos with his fingers, Dean knew this was where he belonged.

“I feel less alone,” Cas said in that too-deep tone.  It vibrated in his chest, passed to Dean through touch.  “When I’m with you.”  Cas pressed a kiss into his hair before Dean angled his head up, catching his mouth.  The kiss they shared was slow and sweet, and it made his heart ache.  

“Same,” he replied quietly.

\--

Dean found Cas outside the shop, deep in thought with a paintbrush between his teeth, his jeans and bare arms spattered with paint.  He couldn’t help but be grateful for the warming weather, because seeing the black, winding lines down Cas’ arms was something he would never get tired of.  

It had made so much sense, to give his grounded human angel wings.  He’d never say that out loud, though.

Cas turned to him, grinning a little around the brush, his eyes trailing down across the tattoos on his own arms like he was in the presence of a master work.  Dean felt his cheeks warm, walking up to him and taking the paintbrush from him, Cas’ lips catching on the wood handle.

“I’m nearly done,” Cas said, unnecessarily.  The wall looked stunning, a mess of color and noise and movement, sky mixed with an urban landscape, people thrown into the mess, through the streets and arm in arm.  A noisy, perfect, chaotic image of their town.

“Get cleaned up, we need to be somewhere.”

Cas frowned at him, his head tipping to the side.  “What?  Where?” he asked.

“Nah uh.  Just trust me,” Dean grinned, kneeling down on the pavement next to Cas’ collection of supplies, dipping the brush into a jar of water, watching the color bloom and spread from its origin point.  Together the two of them cleaned up and placed the supplies back in the containers Cas carried them around in.

Once they were done they walked nearly pressed together to the Impala, setting the supplies in the back before climbing in themselves.

Dean didn’t have to drive far.  The only reason he drove at all was because he wanted to be able to get back to the car quickly afterward.  He was thinking he’d take Cas out to dinner.  Force him into a movie, maybe.  Either way, he was tired and walking would take too long.

He reached over and took his hand as he pulled into the space, Cas staring out the window questioningly.

“Why –“

“Just come with me, okay?” Dean smiled, tugging him by the hand to kiss him once before getting out of the car.

Together they walked into the side entrance of the studio, passing by the classrooms and shops to get to the main hall which housed the gallery.  Cas’ frown just kept getting deeper as they went, fingers interlaced with Dean’s, gripping him tight.  When they stood in front of the floor to ceiling glass window that led into the gallery, Cas’ eyes went wide, and Dean felt his nerves bunching up in his chest.

The only lights in the space were the ones in the center, directed down on Cas’ work, shadows playing across the white walls and floor.  Between them stood a few people, surrounding the freestanding pieces in the center, torso and arms draped out over the edge of a white podium.  He heard Cas inhale sharply, his fingers going limp and slipping from his grasp.

“What is this?”

“I, uh, I thought it’d be nice to have a mini-exhibition.  You know, since the first one was kind of a bust,” Dean smiled.  Cas looked over at him, and then back into the gallery.

“They’re here for me?”

“Yeah,” Dean said.  He set his hand on the back of his neck, running his fingers through the short hair.

“Why?”

Dean just smiled at him, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek before pushing him in the direction of the door.  Cas walked into the space hesitantly, slowly putting distance between himself and Dean as he approached the guests.  There were a couple professors he knew Cas had been close to, a few peers, Charlie who’d insisted, and then his brother who’d taken a sick day a week before finals just to be here for this.

Sam walked up to Cas, holding out his hand and grinning in that open, friendly way that made people fall all over him.  Cas cocked his head to the side, grinning a little as he took his brother’s hand, shaking it.  Dean approached them, watching eagerly.

“Hey, Cas.  My name’s Sam,” his brother smiled, giving his hand another firm shake before letting go.

“Sam?  Sam Winchester?”

“Guilty,” Sam grinned, running his hand through his hair.  It wasn’t slicked this time, so it fell in front of his forehead.  It was a shaggy mess.  

“Your work is astounding,” Cas said very seriously, staring down at his uncovered arms, similar tattoos to Dean’s winding around them, reds and cool blues and grays, a swirl of movement, figures ripped open at his wrist.  The color wasn’t as refined as Dean’s.  Dean could never quite get the hang of the way his brother could manipulate the needle, make it look more like paint than shading.  The lines were better than on his own tattoos, though, much more distinctive, a hundred percent his own.  Sam had been more than pleased at the result.

“I could say the same about yours.  I read your statement.  You’re dealing with body dysphoria?”  Sam turned toward the exhibit, Cas turning with him.  “I think this is really beautifully done, Cas.  Not just the pieces, though I love how you handle your color, and the physical expression in the casts.  The way the limbs sort of reach out from the walls make me feel very boxed in, very uncomfortable.  It simulates the way I imagine it feels to be… unhappy in your own skin.”

“That’s very perceptive,” Cas said, his voice pleased, taking a step forward.  “That effect was my intention.  You seem like you know a lot about the subject.”

“I’d like to hear more of your thoughts,” Sam said, leading Cas away.  Dean watched as they moved around the space together, a few more people joining them, engaging in the conversation.  He was happy to watch them for a minute, Cas comfortable and in his element.  

On his own, he walked around the space, taking in each plaster cast one at a time.  He couldn’t see the meaning as clearly as the other’s might have.  He saw, instead, moments between them, Cas’s hands on him, smoothing plaster on his skin, the way he’d fallen slowly into him.  Missing him when they were apart, wanting to touch him when they were close.  

He saw the cast of his face in the center, on a lone, thin podium, and he couldn’t help but to touch the space beside it, two fingers against the smooth, white surface.  He remembered the way his heart had beat almost painfully in his chest, the anxious excitement as Cas had laid it all down on the table.  He’d eased that fear in him, fear that Cas would leave him.  That he’d fallen desperately in love with someone who didn’t feel the same.

He felt a hand against his lower back, a familiar weight.  He turned to look at Cas who was beaming, his eyes bright and hair a mess and paint streaked across his cheek.  Dean smiled at him.

“Thank you,” Cas said, very seriously, earnestly, placing a hand on Dean’s chest over his beating heart.

“No problem,” Dean said, smiling wider, reaching up and covering Cas’ hand with his own.  “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Cas said, staring into his eyes, picking him apart.  “You make me happy.”  Dean took a deep breath, leaned in and pressed their foreheads together, kissing the edge of his mouth.  Cas exhaled shakily.  “I love you.  More than I can put into words.”

“That’s all I need,” Dean said quietly, kissing him one more time before they turned back to their guests.


End file.
